


Shattered Desires

by lavolpe (lykxxn)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, nothing is black and white
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 10:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12862752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lavolpe
Summary: After a few minutes of watching the man struggle with the map, Jacob approached him. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘If there's somewhere you want to go—’The man, breathing a sigh of utter relief, looked up at the Assassin. ‘Oh, thank God, please,’ he garbled. ‘I’ve never been to London. I’m here for a funeral, actually.’‘Ah,’ replied Jacob. ‘I was just about to wish you a good time … but I don’t think I will anymore.’The man laughed softly at that, the lines on his face easing out and his deep brown eyes widening. ‘Oh, we never really knew each other. I’m just here to show my face and hope there’s alcohol afterwards.’





	1. Introduction

When promising author Jacques Comtois died suddenly in 1871, there was an international outcry. Not only France but the whole world had been gripped by his first tragic novel detailing the romances between two young, star-crossed lovers and later, his two novellas set in and around Le Havre. He had been in the midst of writing both a sequel to _Desires_ and his own, personal autobiography when his own tragic death struck him.

Many attempted to search for both the sequel and autobiography, and, upon finding nothing, claimed both to be lost to the world, until recently.

The lost novels were something of a gem in the literary world, and after examining both, I can be sure that they are connected. I believe that _Desires_ , _Shattered_ and the ‘lost’ autobiography are one and the same and are in fact about Comtois himself, as well as a lover previously unknown.

The novel you are about to read is the novel Comtois wrote, but it has been translated, edited and adapted, to tell the truth. _Shattered Desires_ is not a tragic love story; it is the tragic life of a man who hid his identity from the world, who united the lives of the Fryes and the Starricks forevermore. Despite the attempts of Connor Kenway, no man has ever come as close to uniting the Templars and Assassins as Jacques Comtois.

This is a tale that deserves to be told.

Susan Attaway

University of Cambridge

November 2016


	2. Hugo arrives in London

London had quietened since the death of Crawford Starrick. Although Rooks had been on patrol on almost every street, Jacob found himself bored. He knew they were waiting; Starrick’s funeral was in less than a week. His family had started arriving from all corners of England: cousins, aunts, uncles, a brother and a sister-in-law, two nieces ... Jacob couldn’t keep track of them and, mildly, he wondered how many were Templars.

Whilst Evie and Henry were busy preparing for their probably permanent trip to India, he’d taken to watching at the station to see who arrived. He could tell a Starrick just by the way they walked; they carried themselves with an air of snobbery that was impossible to miss.

Jacob didn’t expect anyone to arrive the afternoon before the funeral, that much was true, but spending his day out and about, especially by the train station, had become somewhat of a routine for him, and he’d learned quickly that he enjoyed watching people go about their daily business. On this afternoon, there was a biting wind that snapped up everything from hats to newspapers, and on the platform that wind seemed to increase tenfold. Jacob bit back a laugh from where he was stood, trying not to stare at a businessman who chased his hat across the platform. The Assassin turned his head again as the next train pulled in, steam billowing into the frosty blue sky. Several people got off, and Jacob huffed, knowing there’d be no funeral-goers on a train today, much less a train from Dover.

One of the last people to get off this train was a dark-haired man in a black coat, clutching a briefcase in one hand and a tattered map in the other. He peered at the map and proceeded to stare around in confusion. His brows were furrowed, dark lines on his face, and, with the hand that was holding the briefcase, scratched his stubbled chin with his knuckles.

After a few minutes of watching the man—a tourist, presumably—struggle with the map, Jacob grew tired. Slowly and curiously, he approached him. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. ‘If there’s somewhere you want to go—’

The man, breathing a sigh of utter relief, looked up at the Assassin. ‘Oh, thank God, please,’ he garbled; his accent was hard to place but it was clear to Jacob he wasn’t from Dover. He sounded more northern; Yorkshire, perhaps. ‘I’ve never been to London,’ he explained. ‘I’m here for a funeral, actually.’

‘Ah,’ replied Jacob. A funeral? Surely it couldn’t have been Starrick’s? The man’s clothing certainly didn’t resemble anything a Starrick would wear; it was far too casual, too common. ‘I was just about to wish you a good time … but I don’t think I will anymore.’

The man laughed softly at that, the lines on his face easing out and his deep brown eyes widening. ‘Oh, we never really knew each other. I’m just here to show my face and hope there’s alcohol afterwards.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My hotel is on Norfolk Square, I know that much. I’m just not sure how to get there. I was always horrible at geography.’

Jacob smiled a little. Evidently, this was just a coincidence. He was a dapper young man here for a distant relative’s funeral. The Assassin shook his head to himself. ‘I can take you if you’d like,’ he offered. ‘I don’t have anything better to do today.’

Jacob found himself, surprisingly, to be quite pleased when the man accepted. ‘So what do you do?’ he asked curiously, instinctively reaching out to take the briefcase from his companion’s hand.

‘I’m a writer,’ he replied, ‘like my father. Although I’ve not really found anything to write about yet. I’ve done a few newspaper articles, book reviews and the like. I wrote a little crime novel set in the Pyrenees but it didn’t really take off.’

‘Oh, really?’ asked Jacob. They began to amble from the station and down the road, Jacob keeping his pace steady to give the man ample time to stare at everything, as tourists were wont to do. ‘You’ve been to France, then?’

‘I live there,’ the man replied, putting his hands casually in his coat pockets. ‘I live in Paris, but I used to divide my time between Lyon and Montpellier.’

Jacob raised his eyebrows in curiosity. ‘You’re not _from_ France, though?’ he clarified. He knew the answer was no, but it would get the man to tell him where he was _really_ from.

‘Well, I was born there, but I’ve lived in a little town in Yorkshire most of my life. My father liked to study the trains there.’

They turned a corner and the man murmured, ‘I should’ve come to London sooner. The only picture I’ve had of it was from a train window,’ and he chuckled. Jacob turned his head to face him and had to force himself not to smile. The man gazed around with an expression of utter awe upon his face, taking in each and every sight he possibly could. Even pigeons seemed to amaze him, a thought which Jacob couldn’t fathom.

‘No pigeons in Paris?’ he asked lightly, smiling to ensure the man knew he was joking.

‘Pigeons?’ responded the man, grinning back at the Assassin. ‘What’re those?’ His eyes, bright and beautiful, gleamed; Jacob had always been so deterred by brown eyes, thinking them so similar to the dirty smoke that billowed from the dirty buildings. This was different, somehow. Jacob couldn’t help but be reminded of hot chestnuts that were often sold around Christmas, warm and inviting. They seemed friendly as if they were ensuring genuine goodness.

Jacob almost didn’t want them to be approaching his hotel. ‘You know, if this is your first visit to London,’ he began hesitantly, ‘what if I take you on a little tour? I have all of this afternoon free; if you’re not doing anything, that is.’

The man positively beamed. ‘Oh! I’d be delighted! But I wouldn’t mind knowing your name first?’

‘Jacob,’ responded the Assassin.

‘Hugo.’

‘After the author?’ asked Jacob, smiling wryly.

‘How did you know? My father’s a fan of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ especially. He used to read it to my mother.’ Hugo ducked his head and swallowed. ‘So are you a Londoner, then?’

‘No,’ replied Jacob, choosing to ignore the change in subject. Like him, parents seemed to be a sore subject for Hugo too. ‘I’m from Crawley. Me and my twin sister both.’

Hugo started a little at the words but spoke as if he hadn’t. ‘I don’t have any siblings.’

‘Here we are,’ murmured Jacob, stopping outside the hotel.

‘Wonderful,’ he responded. ‘After I get checked in and unpacked, perhaps we could go for a bite to eat? I feel like I’ve spent about a day on trains.’

Jacob shrugged. ‘Whatever you want to do.’

He hung around in the lobby as Hugo took the briefcase to his bedroom, feeling rather out of place. He was both bewildered and fascinated by this man, in a way he had never been by anyone before. He had a magnetic personality; all Jacob wanted to do was be around him. Whilst wondering exactly what it was that attracted him, Jacob found he couldn’t place his attraction in one specific place. He was intrigued by his life in Paris as well as his writing career, so much so that he had forgotten all about what had led Hugo to London in the first place: the funeral.

‘I thought we might take a walk through Hyde Park,’ suggested Jacob when he returned, his hair tidied up a little and coat adjusted.

So they ambled through the park, Hugo scrambling to look at everything like an excited child. Jacob found himself smiling easier; not having or wanting to wonder about Starrick or the funeral took a huge weight off his shoulders. He felt lighter than a feather; as if he would suddenly take off and float across London, over the park, over the train station, over Buckingham Palace, over Big Ben, higher and higher until London was just a little dot beneath his weightless feet.

‘You know, whenever people talk to me about London,’ said Hugo, ‘they always say it’s the greatest city in Europe. I’ve always been sceptical, but I guess I was wrong. It’s _beautiful_.’

The Assassin and his companion found a pub just outside of the park and sat to eat. The pub was fairly quiet, which wasn’t unusual this time in the afternoon. They sat in a dark corner where they could talk without any interruptions or eavesdroppers and ordered two beers.

‘So, Mr Frye,’ began Hugo.

Jacob startled and almost dropped his beer. ‘How do you know my surname?’ he demanded.

‘You _are_ Ethan Frye’s son?’

‘How did you know my father?’

‘I didn’t know your father,’ replied Hugo, ‘but _mine_ did. The funeral I’m attending tomorrow is my cousin’s funeral.’

‘What does _that_ have to do with anything?’

‘My cousin was Crawford Starrick.’


End file.
